Something he'll never get used to
by superninjagurl
Summary: You get used to it. The rustle of sheets in early morning, just around seven o'clock, the mumbling and awkward goodbyes as he adjusts his clothes, thrown on haphazardly. Puck does not care. He has gotten used to it.


You get used to it. The rustle of sheets in early morning, just around seven o'clock, the mumbling and awkward goodbyes as he adjusts his clothes, thrown on haphazardly. He wants to get the fuck out of there as soon as possible. Sometimes, he begs you not to tell anyone. Who are you going to tell? You do not know him, do not know his friends, his colleagues... You do not know his wife, his girlfriend, his friend with benefits which he actually really likes but never has the guts to claim. The one who's name he calls when you fuck him through the mattress. And you do not care, because this shit does not mean squat.

Puck does not care. He has gotten used to it. He does not care for them, does not want them for more than a couple of hazy hours. Booze, sex and warm skin. Who's skin it is, who's lips are pressed to his, he could not care less.

Every Friday night is the same. It is the same bar, the same music, the same solid beat. He always downs four beers and one shot of something stronger. Enough to make his head slightly fuzzy, enough for it to pleasantly buzz when his eyes catch sight of his company for the night. He gets him drunk, dances with him, takes him home and always ends up in a state of undressed.

Last night was different from the others. Never before had Puck noticed a familiar face within the crowd. His eyes were red-rimmed when they stared down at the bottom of another emptied Appletini. He told the bartender to keep them coming, while his hands fumbled with the hem of his shirt. Later on, Puck found out that he had broken up with his boyfriend. Something about cheating and slutty secretaries. Puck focused more on his pink lips than the actual words leaving them. His eyes were wide when he recognized him, the greeting hug awkward and hesitant. Puck wanted to make him forget. He got him to dance, his slim body moving next to his until the sadness faded from his eyes. He laughed and even sang a little. Puck had not realized before that moment how much you could miss someones voice. When Puck kissed him, he simply laid his arms around his neck and held onto him all through the night.

This morning, there is not rustle of sheets. There is no grasping for clothes. The sun seeks its way through the blinds. Dust swirls around through the golden light beams. The warm body next to him adjusts slightly, but remains. His body is warm, his back pressed against Puck's side. All naked, pale skin, hiding beneath the white sheets. Puck watches him in silence, wonders when the soft goodbye will leave his lips. He tells himself that he does not care, that this means nothing. The clock ticks. Soon. Soon he will be gone, just like the others. His neck is bare, his hair just a bit longer than it had used to be back then, back in High School. There is a mark there, purplish in color. A remnant of last night. Puck wonders if he will cover it up in shame, later on, when he is gone.

It is past eight o'clock. Puck is still awake, just waiting, eyes mesmerized by the way the sun plays along the miles and miles of naked skin. He had shifted earlier, pushed away the sheets, revealed himself. He is beautiful.

Nine thirty. A hand, five slender fingers form themselves around Puck's wrist, tugs him closer and does not accept disobedience. His chest is pulled flush up against his back. Puck's heart does somersaults and back flips. The way his heartbeats echoes in his ears is painful. Those five fingers interlace with his, holds it gently over his own heart. His heartbeats are so steady, so calm. Was he ever this sure of himself back then? He is all grown up. A man, not a boy any longer. Puck feels like a boy when he awkwardly buries his nose amongst the brown strands of hair in the back of his neck. He smells of warmth and sex. Puck catches a glimpse of a small, satisfied smile. This morning, there is no goodbye.

"Good morning..." he whispers instead and Puck knows that he is there to stay forever.

Waking up to Kurt Hummel is something he'll never get used to.

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**Author's notes: Thank you for reading. It would mean a lot to me if you also took your time to review.  
Lots of lovin' and kisses,**

**Becka**


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